The Death Eater Delivery Boy
by Raven Dragonclaw
Summary: Dark Reflections one-shot. All new Death Eater initiates are required to do grunt work before they can be full homicidal murderers. Faulkland's delivering stuff. It's too bad that he has a conscience - a hippie one. This mission is a weird one.


_Disclaimer:_ I own all original characters, Maia, and the plot of Dark Reflections

_Author:_ Raven Dragonclaw  
_Rating: _PG-13  
_Challenge:_ Dark Challenge #01  
_Author's Notes: _This takes place over Maia's summer, before Hogwarts starts but after Voldemort reunited with his daughter. The meeting between the two is purely coincidental…and it's doubtful anything would come out of it (this based on Voldemort's rather protective nature towards his only child).

* * *

**The Death Eater Delivery Boy**

If there was one thing that Faulkland Lydell would never ever imagine himself doing at the ripe age of nineteen, it certainly wasn't this. Back at Hogwarts, where he had been a reasonably average Ravenclaw that seemed destined for reasonable success in life. He had a good, though not extraordinarily good-looking or fantastically gifted, girlfriend. He was not an Albus Dumbledore or Daedalus Grindelwald in magical ability, wisdom, or general insanity (whether it be either amusing or psychotic). He had adequate funds to support himself, plenty in the bank, and a large house to live in. To be put in the simplest, most ordinary, most utterly run in the mill way, Faulkland Lydell was the embodiment of the average pureblood young man.

Thus, as one would expect that they would, his imaginings were far from ordinary. This seemed to be the one otherwise strange, and quite possibly redeeming, attribute of Faulkland. After all, normal could only be tolerated for so long. And normal was often considered boring – which was actually the most widely held perception that Faulkland was boring. Fortunately, for his somewhat sensitive self-esteem, he wasn't aware of this. No doubt, if he did speak, he would be far more interesting and remarkable.

Faulkland, however, did not speak of what went through his mind many times. For the most part, he considered his outlandish thoughts insane and disturbing, therefore refusing to speak of them to spare the reputation of the estimable Lydell family. As well as suppress them. His mother and father, who were also so ordinary that it was practically indecent, encouraged this behavior. As did his girlfriend, Wendy, because she also being of the same kind of cloth, was quite alarm when he revealed such thoughts to her.

Despite possessing such an exemplary imagination for one so ordinary, Faulkland Lydell of East Chesterfield had never thought those closest to the Dark Lord himself would choose him …as a delivery boy.

Yes, a delivery boy. He, Duke Faulkland Lydell of East Chesterfield, the next head of the considerably small and barely influential Lydell clan, was acting as a mere courier to those that probably had less status than his own (meager) one. With no pay or commission no less. Honestly, it was borderline insulting!

At first, it hadn't been too bad of a prospect to him. He hadn't liked the idea of going around murdering people that much. Let's remember, he was not psychotically insane (nor amusingly insane, but in this case, the lack of insanity was a pro not a con). For one thing, there was the fact that he still had a small annoying thing called a conscience. This little section of his mind repeatedly told him that what he was doing was wrong, etc. The little him complete with halo, robes, harp, and fluffy wings. In truth, the image disgusted him slightly (he doubted most people had consciences that had tie-dye robes and advocated world peace along with the recreational use of muggle recreational drugs). But still, this conscience of his, which most established Death Eaters had either lost or had somehow surgically removed, continued to exist and sit on his shoulder dispensing the guilt.

Though it could be said that his conscience didn't do this so well. For Faulkland's conscience seemed to have been born in a very distinct (…or fuzzy, for the said conscience was typically too high to actually remember) era called the 1960s (even though Faulkland had been born years afterward). Free love and all that. But Faulkland didn't believe in all that. Not one bit. In all respects, he probably could have squashed the little voice of reason (this being loosely implied) and carried on like many other eager homicidal Death Eaters.

However, Faulkland had very low self-esteem. **_Very_** low self-esteem. Which his conscience, however out of it, used to its advantage. A well-placed insult could send him plummeting down into a slump. It was one reason why he was relieved to have been in Ravenclaw and pureblood – the Slytherins, those cunning buggers known for the biting commentary, left him alone. The blame for this lay with his parents –who did not view anything out of the ordinary highly. This made him considerably self-conscious – thus when he met all the children of his parents' pureblood friends at the tender and impressionable age of seven, they mocked him when his claimed that his 'mirror self' was actually a highly intelligent scientist from the planet Negalux Persei Sixteen that looked just like him who often tried to explain exactly **why** Earth was so primitive and how there should be an interplanetary freeway between the Andromeda galaxy and the constellation of Virgo via a communicative device that just happened to be reflective.

Whether any of this was true is still uncertain. But when you make that claim to a bunch of cynical and quite pompous seven year-olds with more attitude than should be legally allowed for that age, the result could be quite damaging.

That was another factor: his self-esteem. It all pointed to one Lucius Malfoy. Enough said. Even as a convict who had just escaped Ministry custody, he still demanded sautéed gourmet dishes for every meal and that he have a manicure. You know you've hit an all time low when a criminal gives you orders while receiving a Swedish massage from a beautiful and quite voluptuous (for lack of a better word) brunette, a exfoliating mask on his face and cucumbers over his eyes.

Please note that for some unexplainable reason, males of the Malfoy line absolutely **adored **pretty brunettes. Especially if they had a knockout and particularly curvy figure, not too skinny or too fat. Why they did was a mystery. And for further elaboration: the marriage to blonde Narcissa Black was arranged. Bellatrix Black – Lestrange had also hinted at various Death Eater post-meeting drink sessions that Malfoys also had a thing for domination. Yeah. Take that anyway you wanted to.

Please also note that it was a secret desire shared by every Death Eater to have the Dark Lord himself walk in on Lucius Malfoy like this. Sure, Faulkland said he didn't like the idea of killing. But killing and deserving torture were two different things entirely. It was not insanity, because he had none, but rather good logic at work. And Death Eaters shouldn't be grooming themselves. They should be working to bring about the ideal of getting rid of the filth that seemed to reign supreme in this era, under the leadership and protection of Albus Dumbledore.

As for Faulkland himself, he was working…sort of. Sure, he wasn't exactly on the front lines, but he was carrying out his duties. In the literal sense of the word. It was something. And it wasn't as if he could really get in too much trouble. For remember, he wasn't out there torturing people. He was just…delivering stuff. Sure, he got to hear the good parts of most important Death Eater leaders, but he was still just a low-rank grunt. Yep. Him, low rank and hardly influential, a duke.

Let's just say that it was a relief for him to move out from his parents' home. It didn't help to have your parents nag you about how he should be a _'normal'_ Death Eater, not their…delivery boy. Regrettably, they did not do their research before somewhat inducting Faulkland into the Death Eater 'family'. This position was just a test of Death Eater loyalty…all the other more high-ranking ones claimed it to be true. And it certainly explained why most of his deliveries were to people neck-deep in the enemy territory, where he could just point and Aurors would jump.

This job that he was performing was odd to the extreme. Even for him. But Faulkland wasn't complaining as he flew over the treetops of Wales, the wind blowing from the sea ruffling his reddish-brown hair as dark brown eyes perused the landscape for his desired destination. He was semi-good on a broom and nearly made the house team as a chaser. Roger Davies, that dumb jock, beat him out. Which he hated because then he would have gotten a possibly better choice of Hogwarts girlfriends. This was not to be, though, and he didn't want to talk about his problems with Wendy.

Why almost every girl swooned at the very thought of Harry Potter was beyond him. The kid had a mess of hair, a shade of eyes that could be attributed to the color of pickled toad, and was practically a midget. But that was what Faulkland thought. It could be a guy thing…or maybe it was just because he was miffed at the fact that his girlfriend was mooning over someone else. Either were actually good reasons.

He alighted on the lawn of the house, looking up at the dwelling, wondering of all the places why the Dark Lord would choose to be here. It was a fairly muggle looking residence, smaller than his manor but larger than the typically large muggle home. Warm lights illuminated several of the windows. Turrets and wings fairly dominated the structure, though in a tasteful fashion. But it was most definitely an old home. The land dropped off into sheer cliff just yards away, the ocean waves breaking forcefully upon the rock. A beech tree guarded the porch entrance, graceful leaves rustling in the air that fairly smacked of salt.

He seriously wasn't expecting this. He had been to the other headquarters that the Dark Lord set up and that had been quite fitting, though it could lose quite a bit of the dust and could do with a good renovation. Still, it had that whole gloomy, '_I'm a scary Dark Lord, boo!_' feel. If that could be defined as an ambiance. But this? It exuded…homey. And comfort. Add in the fact that there was a small muggle town just short of five miles away. And the inhabitants had been quite assuredly alive.

With a hint of trepidation, he knocked on the heavy walnut door, stiff-backed and slightly shaking, noting that the knocker was that of a cobra ready to strike. There seemed to be a commotion from inside already, accentuated with several raised voices, a hissing snake, a pitiful whimpering, as well as a formidable shout of "WORMTAIL, YOU IDIOT!" There was no doubt that he was in the right place now. That was most definitely the Dark Lord – his voice was unmistakable and sent a shiver of fear down Faulkland's spine. And almost every Death Eater worth his life knew of Wormtail – pathetic blighter, another one who also deserved some torture. Though unlike Lucius Malfoy, he often did receive it. As he waited for a few more minutes, made all the more interesting by a few things exploding and someone seeming to try to placate the obviously angered Voldemort. Not a task that he would willingly take on, that he could assure you of. And his conscience, which was currently on a trip, agreed in its usual druggie way in this opinion.

There were light footsteps approaching and Faulkland adjusted his tortoise-shell glasses and black robes, hoping that he looked somewhat presentable. He had a nasty encounter with one of those muggle airplanes when taking a shortcut over Bristol. When the door opened, Faulkland took a calming breath and instinctively looked down.

He was expecting a house-elf.

What greeted him at the door was most definitely **not** a house-elf.

"Can I help you with something?" a girl's alto startled him. "Yes, I'm up here, we don't have house-elves," the girl greeted, though her tone was slightly amused. Whoever lived here, whomever had the sheer likeability to get the Dark Lord to stay in what was probably a very muggle influenced home, probably got that a lot. Most purebloods fully expected a house-elf to welcome them into the home of another pureblood household.

Not that he was complaining. The girl was considerably much more attractive than a house-elf, with the added bonus that she was decidedly human. And probably a just a few years younger than he was, not bad. She wasn't knockout gorgeous, like Cho Chang or Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons were (those two made an average guy like himself wonder if there truly was a just and loving God, because if there was one, he would not torture poor boys like himself with women they never had a chance in Hell of getting), but she had…something. But she was a looker in her own right: nice brown hair, light brown eyes, and a crooked smile that seemed to imply a 'seen-it-all' attitude. Curves in all the right places…undeniably in the right places.

All thoughts of Wendy? Out the window. She was too busy obsessing over Harry Potter anyway.

Thinking back on his previous thoughts, this girl was practically the embodiment of a Malfoy's dream. He could guess that 'Malfoy Junior' was probably going to be all over this girl, if not already because of her looks and attitude, but because of his father. Maybe this was that girl Lucius was talking about to his good-looking masseuse, the one that would be 'perfect' for his son. Her name was Maria, Maia, or Mia. He would probably put his money on Maia though.

"Hey," the girl prompted, bringing him blinking out of his shock and distinctly un-Death-Eater thoughts. "Are you alright?" she asked. "I'm sure you aren't here to just stand here and stare at me." Not too arrogant. That was a plus. Without a word, thoughts someplace else entirely (a place where his hippie conscience wasn't objecting to in the least), he handed over the box that he was supposed to deliver. She read at the label, biting her lip slightly as she did. The note from Malfoy had been so flowery and elaborate that he didn't even bother trying to figure out exactly what the aristocrat/criminal had been trying to convey.

"I see," she said shortly, her eyebrow raised. "From Lucius Malfoy?" He nodded silently, his throat dry – though he couldn't figure out if it was from the salt air or just…because of circumstances. "I was wondering why you didn't say anything about it. **He **barely says anything about what inside." She sent a nervous look back inside the house, where the clamor continued with the added addition of explosions. "Right…" she trailed off, "perhaps it's best that you _don't _come in. The last messenger didn't fare too well. I'll handle it for you, okay?" He agreed…still not saying anything. "Well, it was nice meeting you."

With that the door closed slowly and as he was descending the stairs in a slight daze, a cauldron smashed through the front window, missing his head by inches. For once, his strange imagination hadn't acted up…probably because everything was just so weird in itself lately that it was normal. A concept that his imagination objected highly to.

Ah well. It wasn't his place to question after all. He still had at least twenty more deliveries until he could get promoted. And if all missions were like that, his conscience could probably tolerate them all.

One thing was for sure: if Draco Malfoy had any brains in that blonde head of his, he would go after that girl with or without his father's consent. And if he passed her up, maybe Faulkland himself could have a shot. She seemed worth it. And hopefully, that cursed **_Harry Potter_ **wouldn't try to sink his claws into that girl and take her away too. Because, frankly, that would be just too cruel.

_---END---_


End file.
